By now Webley’s enthusiasm had expanded to all of the spy shows and films of the period, but old loves die hard, and The Agency remained his chief interest. Webley was editor/publisher of Special Assignment, a quarterly amateur magazine devoted to the spy craze of the ’60s. Special Assignment was more than a cut above the mimeographed fanzines that Webley had first begun to collect; his magazine was computer-typeset and boasted slick paper and color covers. By its tenth issue, Special Assignment had a circulation of several thousand, with distribution through specialty bookshops here and abroad. It was a hobby project that took up all ofWebley’s free time and much of his living space, and Webley was content.
Almost content. Special Assignment carried photographs and articles on every aspect of the old spy shows, along with interviews of many of the actors and actresses. Webley, of course, devoted a good many pages each issue to The Agency and to Stacey Steele — but to his chagrin he was unable to obtain an interview with Elisabeth Kent. Since her one disastrous comeback attempt, Miss Kent preferred the life of a recluse. There was some dignity to be salvaged in anonymity. Miss Kent did not grant interviews, she did not make public appearances, she did not answer fan mail. After ten years the world forgot Elisabeth Kent, but her fans still remembered Stacey Steele.
Webley had several years prior managed to secure Elisabeth Kent’s address — no mean accomplishment in itself — but his rather gushing fan letters had not elicited any sort of reply. Not easily daunted, Webley faithfully sent Miss Kent each new issue of Special Assignment (personally inscribed to her), and with each issue he included a long letter of praise for her deathless characterization of Stacey Steele, along with a plea to be granted an interview. Webley never gave up hope, despite Miss Kent’s unbroken silence.
When he at last did receive a letter from Miss Kent graciously granting him the long-sought interview, Webley knew that life is just and that the faithful shall be rewarded.
He caught one of those red-eye-special flights out to Los Angeles, but was too excited to catch any sleep on the way. Instead he reread a well-worn paperback novelization of one of his favorite Agency episodes, The Chained Lightning Caper, and mentally reviewed the questions he would ask Miss Kent still not quite able to believe that he would be talking with her in another few hours.
Webley checked into a Thrifti-Family Motel near the airport, unpacked, tried without success to sleep, got up, showered and shaved. The economy flight he had taken hadn’t served a meal, but then it had been all Webley could manage just to finish his complimentary soft beverage. The three-hour time change left his system rather disordered in any event, so that he wasn’t certain whether he actually should feel tired or hungry were it not for his anxiousness over the coming interview. He pulled out his notes and looked over them again, managing to catch a fitful nap just before dawn. At daylight he made himself eat a dismal breakfast in the motel restaurant, then returned to his room to shave again and to put on the clothes he had brought along for the interview.
It was the best of Webley’s several Harrison Dane costumes, carefully salvaged from various Thrift Shops and yard sales. Webley maintained a wardrobe of vintage mod clothing, and he had twice won prizes at convention masquerades.The pointed-toe Italian boots were original to the period — a lovingly maintained treasure discovered ten years before at Goodwill Industries. The suede bell-bottoms were custom-made by an aging hippie at an aging leather crafts shop that still had a few psychedelic posters tacked to its walls. Webley tried them on at least once a month and adjusted his diet according to snugness of fit. The jacket, a sort of lavender thing that lacked collar or lapels, was found at a vintage clothing store and altered to his measurements. The paisley shirt, mostly purples and greens, had been discovered at a yard sale, and the beads and medallions had come from here and there.
Webley was particularly proud of his Dane Cane, which he himself had constructed after the secret agent’s famous weapon. It appeared to be a normal walking stick, but it contained Dane’s arsenal of secret weapons and paraphernalia including a radio transmitter, recording device, tear gas, and laser. Harrison Dane was never without his marvelous cane, and good thing, too. Alex Webley had caused rather a stir at the airport check-in, before airline officials finally permitted him to transport his Dane Cane via baggage.
Webley still clung to the modified Beatles haircut that Harrison Dane affected. He combed it now carefully and he studied his reflection in the room’s ripply mirror. The very image of Harrison Dane. Stacey Steele Miss Kent — would no doubt be impressed by the pains he had taken. It would have been great to drive out in a Shelby Cobra like Dane’s, but instead he called for a cab.
Not a Beverly Hills address, Webley sadly noted, as the taxi drove him to one of those innumerable canyon neighborhoods tottering on steep hillsides and the brink of shabbiness. Her house was small and featureless, a little box propped up on the hillside beside a jagged row of others like it — distinguishable one from another chiefly by the degree of seediness and the cars parked in front. Some cheap development from the 1950s, Webley judged, and another ten years likely would see the ones still standing bought up and the land used for some cheap condo development. He felt increasingly sad about it all; he had been prepared to announce his arrival to some uniformed guard at the subdivision’s entrance gate.
Well, if it were within his power to do so, Webley intended to bring to bear the might and majesty of Special Assignment to pressure these stupid producers into casting Elisabeth Kent in new and important roles. That made this interview more important than ever to Webley — and to Miss Kent.
He paid off the cab — tipping generously, as Harrison Dane would have done. This was perhaps fortuitous, as the driver shouted after him that he had forgotten his attache case. Webley wondered how Dane would have handled such an embarrassing lapse — of course, Dane would never have committed such a blunder. Webley’s case — also modelled after Dane’s secret agent attache case, although Webley’s lacked the built-in machine gun — contained a bottle of Glenfiddich, his notes, cassette recorder, and camera. It was essential that he obtained some photographs of Miss Kent at home: since her appearance in the unfortunate Tiger Fists film, current photos of Elisabeth Kent were not made available. Webley had heard vicious rumors that the actress had lost her looks, but he put these down to typical show biz back-stabbing, and he prayed it wasn’t so.
He rang the doorbell, using the tip of his cane, just as Dane always did, and waited — posing jauntily against his cane, just as Dane always did. The seconds dragged on eternally, and there was no response. He rang again, and waited. Webley looked for a car in the driveway; saw none, but the carport was closed. He rang a third time.
This time the door opened.
And Alex Webley knew his worship had not been in vain.
“Hullo, Dane,” she said. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“How very good to see you, Miss Steele,” said Webley. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
And she was Stacey Steele. Just like in The Agency. And Webley felt a thrill at knowing she had dressed the part just for the interview — just for him.